


Walls Won't Hold Us

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate side quest ending, Arthur Dutch friendship, Arthur Whump, Could be ArthurxDutch, Creepy serial killer stuff, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I just want them to get along please, Serial Killer side quest, Spoilers for chapters 4 and 5, earthquake, hurt Arthur, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 20:49:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17536010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: After the disaster of a bank job, after the deaths, after the island, things aren't the same. Arthur can't sleep. He can't move on. He thinks Dutch doesn't need him, that the family they've worked so hard to build is falling apart before his eyes.Dutch wants, more than anything, to tell him how wrong he is. He just wishes Arthur was lucid enough to hear it.





	1. Chapter 1

For once, things weren’t going too poorly. 

Arthur wouldn’t go so far as to say that he was feeling  _ good _ , because he wasn’t. Nobody was. But there were days that were better than others, days where the camp wasn’t filled with cold glares or vicious gossip, when the tension and the stress was almost forgotten. 

Those were the days following the nights when Arthur could actually sleep, When his chest wasn’t on fire, when he didn’t taste ocean water sliding down his throat as he drowned, unable to see if his friends and Micah had made it to safety.

Today was one of those days. Not a good day, because the Van Der Linde gang didn’t have good days anymore. But it was a better day and Arthur, allowing himself to be optimistic, noticed that they’d been having more of those lately. 

Even Dutch, who had been reminding Arthur of a ghost lately, wandering aimlessly, unsure of what to do with its own existence, seemed to be doing better. 

Hosea was still gone, there was no changing that, but he seemed to be slowly regaining the life his death had stolen from him. He still wouldn’t quite look Arthur in the eye, and he found himself mourning the loss of Dutch just as much as the loss of Hosea. Things weren’t the same between the two of them, and Arthur didn’t know how to fix it. 

He and John were finally getting along, Arthur realizing for the first time how utterly stupid his grudge had been. John had come back, which was more than anyone could say for Hosea and Lenny. 

Arthur just wished John didn’t look at him like he was broken, like the slightest touch would leave him shattered beyond repair. 

“Would you  _ stop?”  _

John had the audacity to feign innocence. “Stop what?” 

Arthur only responded with an annoyed huff and kicked his horse, taking off across grassy path. John followed close behind, and Arthur almost regretted setting aside their feud. He was starting to miss when John wasn’t talking to him. 

“I’m sorry,” John said, sounding as far from apologetic and one possibly could. “Just worried about you.” 

“Well you can stop worrying about me because I’m  _ fine.”  _ It would have sounded more convincing if he hadn’t broken off at the end with a cough, wet and ragged and painful. The noise only intensified John’s scrutinizing stare and Arthur bit back a groan. His lungs still hadn’t fully recovered from his near drowning experience, and the nonexistent sleep schedule he’d adopted since returning wasn’t doing him any favors. 

“When was the last time you actually slept?” John demanded. He was starting to remind Arthur of Dutch.  

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m fine?” He’d slept last night, not nearly enough, but more than usual. “If you’re so intent on worrying about someone, worry about Dutch. He’s the one who lost his best friend.” 

“Are the two of you ok?” 

“John,--” 

“Look, you don’t have to talk to me,” John said. “I’ll back off. But you should at least try talking to him.” 

The conversation dropped, and Arthur almost hated the silence more than John’s persistent questioning, the quiet only provoking unhelpful thoughts he could no longer ignore. 

Talking to Dutch was...difficult. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he and Dutch had simply had a conversation. It was all business now, short and curt, like Arthur was a stranger. Guarma had served as a distraction from the bank job, but now that they were back and things were somewhat settled down, the grief was hitting everyone full force. 

Dutch especially, who seemed to forget he wasn’t the only one affected. Namely Arthur, who had loved Hosea nearly as much as he loved Dutch. 

He tried to understand, to wait patiently, to pretend he didn’t miss Dutch’s company, but as time went on it got harder. Arthur felt isolated, like Dutch didn’t need him. Like he’d died along with Hosea in that bank. 

It was a special kind of hurt to see him talking at length with Micah,  _ planning _ , as he so colorfully put it. Arthur tried to ignore it, knowing he was being childish and unreasonable when it bothered him so much, but he couldn’t help it. 

He said nothing to John, however, only grunting in vague agreement and turning his horse in the direction of camp. 

  
  
  
  


Arthur should have known something horrible was going to happen sooner or later. Things had been almost peaceful, despite the distance between him and Dutch. So, of course, the universe was required the screw him over sooner or later. That was just how the world worked.

Arthur was expecting another particularly bad nightmare, an injury, a lost bar fight, or something just as painfully horrible. 

Now, however, seeing what the world’s punishment really was, he thought he would have preferred the life threatening injury. 

“Dutch? What are you doing here?” 

Arthur had found a foot. An honest to good, bloody, severed human foot cut up to the ankle, just laying on the grass outside Valentine. That should have  been the first sign that something was destined to go wrong.

John had been there, and Arthur had teased him relentlessly about how pale his face had gotten at the sight. Right up until they’d found the rest of the body, scattered around the clearing, and a rolled up piece of a map soaked in crimson. 

“We shouldn’t get involved,” John warned as Arthur, setting aside all his personal morals, took the paper from the body’s remains. “Arthur…” 

“You just wanna let this guy roam free?” Arthur challenged, knowing he was just looking for any kind of excuse to distract himself from...everything. “He seems just a bit unstable, don’t you think?” 

“I think it’s the law’s job. Jesus. What kind of serial killer  _ wants  _ to be found?”

“The crazy ones,” Arthur said, smearing the wet blood on his fingertips on his pants. “You sure you ain’t interested?” 

“Not even a little.” John grimaced, turning away from the bloody clearing and practically sprinting to his horse. “And I don’t want you doing this alone.”  

“I think I can handle it,” Arthur shot back. And he had. He’d found two other bodies, a new piece of the map with each equally gruesome one, recognizing the locations fairly quickly. One of the benefits of never quite settling down, he supposed. He had the roads memorized.

He’d found what he assumed to be the last body (he certainly hoped it was the last one) and followed the dried blood trail behind a pile of rocks. 

And there was Dutch, expressionless, staring at the dismembered body like it was the most normal thing in the world. He looked up as Arthur approached, raised an eyebrow, and held up the last piece of the bloody map. 

“Took you long enough,” Dutch grumbled, thrusting the paper in Arthur’s chest. Arthur suddenly felt on edge standing next to him, the cool autumn air now thick with tension. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Dutch, it was that he  _ couldn’t _ . He couldn’t break past the wall Dutch had put around himself. The wall that seemed to only be for Arthur. 

“How’d you find me?” 

“John told me you’d come across this man’s...work,” Dutch explained. “He said it might interest me and you could use the back up.” 

“Of course he did,” Arthur muttered. Marston, the  _ softie,  _ was actually trying to force Dutch and Arthur to  _ talk.  _ Like they were children who needed an adult to stop their incessant fighting. Arthur and Dutch weren’t fighting they were...Dutch just seemed cold. He needed time. 

Dutch crossed his arms,“If you’d prefer someone else,  _ Arthur--”  _

“No, that’s--” 

“Good.” He held out his hand. “Show me what you have.” 

Arthur, fumbling momentarily with his satchel, produced the rest of the map and handed it to Dutch, who easily pieced it together against the rock. Arthur peered over his shoulder, recognizing the structure. 

“That’s right outside Valentine,” he said. “Old shack in the woods. I’ve rode past it a few times. It’s not far.” 

Dutch hummed, gathering up the papers and handing it back to Arthur. He started back towards the path and whistled, The Count’s hooves filling the quiet air in seconds.  

“Glad you’re gallivanting has finally been put to good use,” Dutch said. Arthur felt a pang in his heart, remembering Hosea saying something similar when they’d first arrived. Of course, things had been better back then, happier. Hosea’s tone was always light, his words nothing more than gentle teasing. 

Dutch...Arthur couldn’t even tell what Dutch was trying to say. 

The ride was deathly silent, Arthur never quite able to gather the courage to even open his mouth. He had no idea why he was so afraid, what could have happened to make Dutch, one of the few people he could always talk to, seem to unapproachable. 

Arthur couldn’t understand to make Dutch turn so cold against him. Was it just Arthur? No one else seemed unsettled around Dutch, nobody mentioned anything off. Was that it? Dutch had just...stopped caring? Stopped needing Arthur? 

He tried to tell himself that he was being stupid. That he’d been nothing but loyal to Dutch nearly his whole life. That of course Dutch still cared about him. But he couldn’t keep the thoughts from flooding his mind, plaguing him, and he felt the stress and insecurity slowly pile up. 

The rundown shack couldn’t come into view soon enough, his mind finally able to focus on something else. Dutch and Arthur slowed, both taking their weapons from their saddle and dismounting, Arthur grabbing and lighting his lantern. 

The walls of the shack were decayed and lifeless, the building clearly unused for years. But there was a cellar around the back, the doors unlocked, and Arthur couldn’t suppress a shudder as they opened with a low squeal. 

“ _ Try  _ not to kill him if you can,” Dutch said, like Arthur was the one with the history of losing his cool. “It wouldn’t hurt to do the law a favor.” 

Arthur thought about pointing out that it wasn’t their job, or reminding him about Bronte or that old woman on Guarma, but he kept his mouth shut. There was no need to make Dutch resent him even more. 

“I’ll do my best,” he said, quiet and obedient, and Dutch seemed satisfied. Arthur led the way down the stairs, holding out their only light source in front of him, moving slow and careful. 

The cellar was definitely the hideout of a serial killer. Animal bones, human bones, blood stains, and body parts lined the walls, attached to rusted hooks and bloody weapons. Arthur kept his eyes on the ground, feeling as though he might be sick from the blood alone, his head beginning to pound and his eyes watering. 

“You alright over there?” Dutch asked, and Arthur nodded quickly, clearing his throat. 

“Fine,” he said, holding his lantern up to a rack of weapons, all stained a dull, faded red. Some of the stains looked fresher than others. “You think this is  _ maybe _ our guy?” 

“Very funny,” Dutch scoffed. He squinted through their limited illumination, the lantern doing very little. “Doesn’t look like he’s home. You stay here, I’m going to get another lantern. See if you can find anything.” 

Staying alone in the psycho killer’s cellar filled with human remains was probably the last thing Arthur wanted to do ever, but he nodded and watched as Dutch felt his way along the walls and found the stairs. 

Forcing himself to move, Arthur stepped away from the weapons and made his way to the table at the other end of the room, littered with scattered papers and open envelopes.

There was a letter placed on the desk next to an open jar of black ink, a pen discarded on the ground. Arthur briefly scanned the note, some long-worded statement to the editor of some fancy newspaper, and Arthur almost filed it as irrelevant before he saw the words glisten. He ran his thumb over the last line of writing and his blood ran cold. 

The ink was still wet. 

The sound of the cellar doors shutting made Arthur jump, nearly spilling the ink all over the letter.He spun around, reaching for his gun, but everything had gone quiet and still once again. 

“Dutch?” The lack of response prompted a cold dread in his gut, and Arthur readied his gun. “Dutch, that you?” 

There was still no response and Arthur wondered briefly is Dutch was messing with him. Just a few months ago, when things were lighter between them, he wouldn’t put it past him. But now…

Suddenly, there was a silhouette of a man in front of him, moving closer in the darkness of the shadows. He lunged forward with an animal-like snarl, fast and rapid, Before Arthur could so much as aim his gun something heavy and solid was flying towards his face, colliding with his temple. 

Stars danced across Arthur’s vision, the room tilting dangerously, darkening as the lantern fell. He stumbled his knees hitting the ground, and something else slammed into the back of his neck. 

He grunted as his jaw hit the cold ground. His vision went fuzzy and he fell, slipping into the clutches of unconsciousness. 

  
  


Arthur awoke, slowly, to the feeling of ropes digging into his skin. He’d be lying if he said it wasn't a familiar feeling, the tight burn against his wrists and ankles. There was a rope around his neck, just tight enough not to strangle him, keeping Arthur from even raising his head. 

His eyes fluttered open, meeting nothing but darkness, but the decomposing smell told him he hadn’t been moved far. 

“Dutch?” he called, clearing his throat when his voice came out raw and hoarse. He tried to move to no avail, the bounds and the darkness working together to trap him, to leave him helpless.  _ “Dutch?”  _

“Your friend isn’t here,” a voice said somewhere above him, and Arthur tensed. A lantern was lit, creating a calm yellow glow, and through Arthur’s limited field of vision, he could see a thin, balding man with a mustache and expensive suit smiling down at him. 

“What did you do to him?” Arthur demanded, just managing to keep his voice from shaking as he met the killer’s eye. 

“Nothing yet,” he said, and Arthur already felt some of the panic wash away. “But I  _ will.  _ He’ll be next, don’t worry.” 

The man set down the lantern and moved away, returning a moment later with one of the knives from the rack on the wall, still stained with the blood of whatever poor bastard had been unlucky enough to cross paths with this lunatic. 

The man knelt down beside Arthur, who tried in vain to twist away, tugging at the ropes until he was sure his wrists would start bleeding. THe man smiled, almost gleefully, like he was watching a child. 

“Struggling will only make it worse,” he supplied. Arthur felt the cold steel of the weapon slide under his chin and his heart began to pound painfully in his chest, his breaths becoming faster, panicked. “Do you  _ like  _ pain, sir? It’s about to become your friend. Your very  _ close  _ friend.” 

Arthur tried to respond, trusting himself to think of some well crafted argument or insult that would distract his captor long enough for him to think of a way out of this. But his voice caught in his throat when something began to dig into his side, blinding hot pain shooting through his body as he desperately bit back a scream. 

“Try to relax,” the killer soothed. Arthur shuddered, refusing to look at him. “I’ll make sure to take it slow.” 

The knife began to move, slow just like he’d so graciously promised, and Arthur was fairly sure the leisurely speed was just making the pain worse. He felt dizzy, nauseous, and his struggled quickly grew more desperate which only succeeded in pulling at the gashes on his torso. 

“Dutch!” He called, purely out of instinct as the knife dug deeper. He thought he heard something over the man’s cheerful humming, but he couldn’t be sure. His blood was rushing in his ears, slowly drowning out everything around him. The pain only worsened and his cries grew more frantic. “Dutch!  _ Dutch!”  _

There was a loud noise from somewhere around him and suddenly the knife was gone, ripping out of his skin and Arthur hissed in pain. There was another noise, louder and closer than the first one, followed by another, and then another. Arthur, dazed and confused, could only shrink back against the floor and squeeze his eyes shut. 

“Arthur?” a new voice said, and Arthur’s eyes flew open when he recognized it. Relief washed over him, mixing with the searing pain, and he could only offer a pathetic nod. “It's ok. You’re fine. He’s dead. Let’s get you out of here.” 

It was the softest Arthur had heard Dutch’s voice in a long time. The relief of the ropes being cut free, first carefully on his neck and then his limbs only intensified his dizziness, and Arthur realized idly that he was shaking. 

“There we go,” Dutch said, slipping his knife back into his bag. Arthur caught sight of the man, as bloody and dead as his victims, discarded on the other end of the room. He quickly averted his gaze, instead watching as Dutch peeled back his shirt to get  look at what the knife had done. “Jesus. Alright, you’re going to be fine once you’re cleaned up. Wait here, I don’t want you moving yet. I’m go--” 

Dutch moved to stand, stopping when Arthur quickly reached out, clamping a hand around his arm. He frowned, seeming to notice for the first time just how hard Arthur was shaking. 

“Arthur?” Dutch said. He didn’t sound annoyed, like Arthur had feared, only concerned and mildly confused. “I have bandages in my saddle. I’ll be right outside.” 

Arthur nodded, swallowing. “I know, I… I’m sorry, I just need a minute. Just...just stay for a minute. Please.” 

Dutch, seeming to understand, nodded and settled back down on the cellar floor, his hand squeezing Arthur’s wrist, just above the rope burns. Arthur didn’t let go of his arm, trying desperately to get control of his breathing, painfully aware of Dutch’s eyes on him. 

He’d been in worse situations than this, come much closer to death more times than he could count. But there was a difference between going down in battle, taken down by an enemy too fast to even really understand what had happened, and being tied down, helpless and defenseless, forced to look your killer in the eye while he slowly drained the life out of you. He shuddered, still feeling oddly numb and distant, and he wondered how much blood he’d lost. 

“What happened?” he asked when he was sure he had proper control over his voice. 

“Bastard got me from behind,” Dutch grumbled. “Locked me out of the cellar while he...dealt with you. Should’ve taken the gun from my saddle. Seems like I got to you just in time.” 

Arthur nodded, letting out a shaky breath. He was becoming slowly aware of the cuts on his stomach, the blood seeping through his shirt and pooling onto the floor around him. 

“Five minutes earlier would have been better,” he said, and Dutch smiled, apologetic. “I could, uh, use those bandages right about now.” 

Dutch nodded, giving Arthur’s wrist a last, gentle squeeze before standing. “I’ll be right back,” he promised and Arthur nodded, trusting him. He scooted back, leaning against the wall as he watched Dutch hurry up the stairs. 

In Arthur’s opinion, getting captured, tied up, and nearly killed by a psycho serial killer was beyond enough punishment for having a few moderately good days that weren’t even much of an improvement to begin with.  

But clearly, the universe felt different. 

Dutch had just come back into view, stepping down onto top of the stairs when Arthur felt the ground beneath his fingers begin to move. Dutch clearly felt it to, and his confusion turned to alarm as the shaking grew worse, reaching the walls and sending clouds of dust spiraling into the air. 

“Cover your head!” he shouted and Arthur, regaining some of his awareness, realized what was happening. Earthquake. At what could not possibly be a worse time. 

He obeyed, watching in horror as the staircase gave way and Dutch disappeared from view. Arthur had barely enough time to react, to feel the dread fully set in, before the ceiling came down and Arthur’s world went black once again. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The pain in his side was what finally woke Dutch, the pinching feeling nagging and pulling him from peaceful oblivion. He sucked in air through his teeth and pressed a hand to his ribs, his fingers coming away wet. 

He opened his eyes and tried his best to sit up, coughing when he breathed in the thin, dusty air. The ground below him was old, shattered wood and dirt, the walls loose and crumpled rocks. 

But he could still see, light filtering in from above him. Cellar doors hung open above him, an easy enough distance to reach, giving him the impression that he hadn’t fallen far. It didn’t mean he wasn’t sore. Every muscle, every bone ached as he pushed himself off the ground, trying to clear his head. 

Everything came back in a flash, the serial killer, the hideout, the earthquake, and Dutch was quickly consumed by a mindless panic. 

“Arthur!” he called, his eyes watering from the endless mounds of spiraling dust. “Where are you?  _ Arthur?”  _

No, no, no, Arthur had already been hurt. He’d been bleeding, nothing serious as long as they got it cleaned and treated quickly, but he’d been further down in the cellar. How severe had the collapse been? 

Dutch fought to get to his feet, stumbling twice before getting his footing, and started forward, stopping only to find a wall of debris in his way.

The earthquake had completely taken out the ceiling and walls between the entryway and the rest of the cellar. It created a barrier, blocking Dutch from getting to where Arthur could be hurt or...or dying. 

Well, he wasn’t going to just sit here and do nothing. Ignoring the pain in his side, Dutch started forward, grabbed the first rock in his path and pulled. Some were easier to move than others, but the progress was beyond slow. He had no idea how thick the wall was, how much of the cellar had come down, or what he would even find  _ if  _ he managed to find anything at all. 

The doubt was just starting to get to him, when he heard a distant sound fill the remains of the cellar. It was muffled and quiet, and Dutch wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been listening. He froze, refusing to let himself get his hopes up until he heard it again, slightly louder this time. 

“Arthur?” Dutch called, and the noise stopped. His heart was beating so fast and so loud it was a wonder he could hear anything at all. “Arthur! Can you hear me?” 

 There was a weak cough, followed by an equally weak voice. “D...Dutch?” 

Dutch flinched, despite the relief. He didn’t sound good. “I’m here, I’m coming. I’m coming right now, Arthur. Where are you?” 

There was silence, shuffling, and Dutch waited, trying not to be impatient. 

“I don’t know,” Arthur said, only making Dutch panic more. ”I...I can’t  _ see,  _ Dutch, I don’t...it’s--” 

“Ok.” He kept his voice strong and gentle for Arthur’s sake, despite how frantic he really felt. The only light source was on Dutch’s side, obviously leaving Arthur completely blind. “Listen to me, Arthur, focus on me. Follow my voice. Come on, Arthur, follow the sound of my voice I need to--” 

A cry of pain shot out through the cellar, effectively cutting Dutch off. The panic became overwhelming, threatening to suffocate him.

Arthur!” Dutch yelled, already going furiously back to work on the barrier. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, what--?” 

Arthur’s groan silenced him, just audible through the distance. “Looks like we-we need a new plan, Dutch. I...I think...I think I’m stuck. I can’t move.” 

Dammit. “Are you hurt?” Dutch demanded, and the brief silence threatened to send Dutch into another panic. 

“M’ leg,” was all Arthur muttered, his voice dangerously quiet. Dutch had to strain to hear him over the sound of shifting rubble. 

“Is it broken?” Dutch asked. After a moment, when there was no answer, Dutch frowned and slowed his work. He raised his voice to a commanding bark. “Arthur! Is your leg broken?” 

“I-I don’t…” Arthur almost sounded startled, like he’d forgotten he’d been asked a question, and Dutch’s heart dropped. “Y-yeah, I think so.” 

“Arthur, did you hit your head?” 

“Did I--?” 

“Did you hit your  _ head _ ,” Dutch snapped, knowing full well his frustration was completely unjustified and doing absolutely no good. “Does your head hurt? Is it bleeding?  _ Arthur!”  _

The beat of silence felt like an eternity, but Arthur’s weak voice hardly made him feel any better. 

“Yeah...yeah he hit me in the head. Couple times. Sorry.” 

“It’s fine, it’s ok. You’re ok,” Dutch said, desperately pulling apart the wall with renewed vigor. “But I need you to stay awake for me, alright? Keep talking. Focus on me.” 

“You hurt?” 

“Me? No.” Dutch could focus on his own injury later. The danger to him was miniscule compared to what Arthur was facing. The cuts could still be bleeding, and mixed with a head injury and a broken leg...he needed help. Dutch was almost willing to risk bringing Arthur into town for a doctor. 

“What are you going to do,” Arthur asked. “I-if you get to me?” 

“ _ When  _ I get to you,” Dutch corrected without a second thought. “The exit’s right above me. We’re gonna be just fine.” 

Another beat of silence. “You should...should just go. Doesn’t sound like you’re making much progress over there.” 

“I’m almost there. Ok? I’m almost there, Arthur. Just a couple more minutes. Have some damn patience.” 

Minutes passed, turning into hours, to no avail, despite how much of the rubble he had thrown aside. Arthur was getting quieter, only emitting a weak call to show he was still awake each time Dutch prompted him. 

“M’ sorry,” Arthur slurred, and Dutch chucked the rock in his hand against the wall, watching it shatter with little satisfaction. 

“Goddammit, what are you sorry for  _ now?”  _ He regretted it immediately. It was suddenly too easy to imagine Arthur, dazed, hurt, probably scared out of his mind, and now unable to understand why he was being yelled at. But he was talking again before Dutch had the chance to apologize. 

“I don’t know. Just for...whatever I did. M’ sorry.” 

The pained sorrow in Arthur’s voice just made Dutch work impossibly faster. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“I don’t know what I  _ did,  _ Dutch,” Arthur said, sounding at least ten years younger. But his voice sounded closer now, and Dutch kept moving. “You don’t talk, you...you don’t need me…” 

Arthur’s voice was getting weaker, his semi-conscious confession tearing viciously at Dutch’s heart. He swallowed, swaying a moment on his feet. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Arthur,” he said, struggling momentarily with one of the bigger pieces of rock. “You’re not thinking straight.” 

“Go get yourself help,” Arthur said, the clearest thing out of his mouth in a long while. “Won’t make a dif...ference. You don’t need--” 

“Of course I  _ need  _ you, Arthur, shut  _ up.”  _ Of course, he needed Arthur to keep talking, just not about this. This wasn’t the right time. How long had Arthur been thinking like this? Since Guarma? Before? Sure, Dutch had been somewhat reserved lately, cold and dismissive, but he had every right to be. Surely Arthur understood that? 

“Y-you...you’re not the only one who-who lost him, Dutch,” Arthur said, barely audible, and Dutch thought he might collapse along with the cellar. Before he could say anything, however, Arthur added, “I th-think I hear you getting closer.” 

“Good. That’s good, Arthur. Just keep talking, alright?” Silence. “Arthur?” 

“M’ here,” Arthur said, and despite the quieting of his voice, he sounded closer. “Just tired. Haven’t been sleeping.” 

“Why not, son?” 

“You snore,” Arthur said and Dutch laughed, a scared, almost hysterical sound. 

“Well if you ever need any help sleeping I’m sure Hos--” He stopped himself just in time, ignoring the hollow pain in his gut. “Miss Grimshaw has something that can help.” 

“We’re...running low on supplies,” Arthur slurred. “Don...don’t wanna waste anything…” 

“It’s not a waste, Arthur,” Dutch argued, gentle, trying desperately to lock onto his voice. “Keep talking so I know where you are. I think I’m close.”

It took too long for Arthur’s voice to fill the destroyed cellar again. When he did, it sounded barely present, only just holding on because Dutch told him he had to. 

“Th-this...this sucks,” he said and Dutch nodded. He reached forward to grab the next rock, his hand instead grabbing onto something soft. He pulled away as soon as he heard Arthur’s groan, the thing under his hand shifting. “ _ Dutch.”  _

“Sorry! Sorry, Arthur. I’m here, I’m getting you out.” Dutch knelt beside his leg, trying to figure out where exactly Arthur was and the best way to get him out of the rubble. The sun had long set behind him, forcing him to work in near total darkness. 

But he could just see Arthur, pale and shaking, laying on his back. His left leg and most of his side were completely covered by rocks too heavy for his weakened body to move, though Dutch had no doubt he’d been trying. Looking closer, Dutch noted that Arthur’s shirt was stained with blood, the red still wet and shining. 

“Hang in there,” Dutch whispered, hoping Arthur was still awake enough to hear him, and got to work. 

He had to work slower than he had been, slowly and carefully pulling away each rock to avoid jostling any of Arthur’s injuries. It looked like the bleeding on his stomach had at least slowed down at some point, and besides his broken leg, Dutch didn’t see any other wounds. 

“How’s your head?” he asked, frowning when his only response was a tired hum. Dutch paused his work and kneeled down beside him, cupping the back of Arthur’s head in his hand. 

“ It sucks.”

There was definitely a lump, and in the dim moonlight, Dutch could see dried blood matted in Arthur’s light brown hair. His stomach clenched as he carefully lowered Arthur back down. 

“You’re bleeding,” Arthur muttered. 

Dutch’s eyes dropped to his side grimacing when he saw the blood stain on his shirt. He’d almost forgotten about it. “I’m fine.” 

“You said you weren’t hurt.” 

“I’m not,” Dutch argued without malice. All anger and frustration towards Arthur had faded the moment he’d finally found him. “I’ll get it taken care of as soon as your safe.”

There was another moment of heavy silence, Dutch constantly glancing at Arthur’s face to make sure he was still awake and breathing. 

“You can’t die, Dutch.” 

“Nobody’s dying,” Dutch absently shot back. “We’ll be fine.” 

“You--” Dutch removed the last large piece of debris from Arthur’s leg, the choking cry of pain replacing whatever he’d been about to say. 

“There we go,” Dutch said, satisfied that there was nothing else pinning Arthur down. “You ready to get out of here?” 

Arthur barely managed a tiny nod, his eyes beginning to fall shut. 

“No, no, no,” Dutch chanted, gently grabbing Arthur’s jaw and patting his cheek. Arthur’s brows furrowed in annoyance but his eyes fluttered back open. “That’s it. I know you’re tired but you need to stay awake. Just for a little bit longer.” 

Arthur grunted. “Nobody ever lets me sleep.” 

Despite the nearly inaudible weariness, Dutch found himself smiling. “You do as I say and you can sleep as long as you want when we get back to camp. No interruptions. Deal?” 

Arthur mustered the strength for another nod, visibly fighting to do as Dutch asked, Dutch turned away, focused now on the problem of actually getting Arthur out of the cellar without any further injuries.

“Can you put your arms around my neck?” Dutch asked, knowing he was giving Arthur no choice. “I’m gonna help you stand.” 

Arthur grunted. “Rather just...stay here a while.” 

“Don’t be lazy,” Dutch chided. Arthur lifted his arms, weakly wrapping them above Dutch’s shoulders. “Good. Ready?” 

He nodded as Dutch wrapped his arm around Arthur’s back, steadying him, and hoisted them both into a standing position. Arthur’s whole body tensed and his visibly fought back a yell, breathing heavily. He balanced awkwardly, leaning most of his weight on Dutch as he tried to keep off his bad leg. 

“It’s right over here,” Dutch said quietly, his voice full of hope and promise he wasn’t sure he could live up to. He didn’t like Arthur walking, even with the support and the short distance. If the pain in his side wasn't growing progressively worse he would be carrying Arthur completely, no doubt ignoring his incessant protests. 

“How...how’re you planning on getting us up there?” Arthur asked, gazing up at the night sky through heavy lidded eyes. He was leaning more heavily into Dutch with each painfully small step and Dutch found himself tightening his hold each time he felt Arthur slip. 

“It’s not too high up. I’ll go first, get a rope from The Count, and toss it down to you. Easy. We’ll be home before you know it.” 

It was a blatant lie, there was no way Dutch was risking the longer ride back to camp.He trusted Miss Grimshaw and Reverend Swanson, they’d saved his life more than once, but they weren’t doctors. 

“You sure you’re strong enough for that, Dutch?” Arthur asked. Dutch’s empty assurance of a response died in his throat when he saw the slight smirk on Arthur’s pale face. 

“Don’t be a brat,” he muttered, and kept leading Arthur forward. 

By the time he leaned Arthur up against the dirt wall, his eyes were squeezed shut to block out the pain, and Dutch was growing more desperate. He’d wanted to do this carefully, catering to both Arthur’s injuries and his own, but they didn’t have time. 

“Wait here, Arthur. Two minutes. Just give me two minutes. Stay awake so you can grab onto the rope, alright?” 

Arthur, barely awake and fading fast, gave a determined nod and forced himself to try and straighten up. Dutch felt a swell of emotions, pride, sorrow, worry, guilt, and tore himself away from Arthur, turning to the cellar’s opening. 

It really wasn’t very far at all. The jump would have been easy if Dutch wasn’t still bleeding, the pain growing sharper as he pulled himself up onto the grass, the fields littered with loosened dirt from the earthquake. 

He whistled for The Count, the white horse appearing through the trees seconds after Dutch’s beckoning. He wasted no time rummaging through his saddlebag and unraveling the rope, dropping to his knees beside the cellar. 

“Arthur?” he called, not quite knowing what he would do if Arthur couldn’t respond. He wouldn’t be able to get Arthur up by himself, and he wasn’t sure Arthur could make it left alone if he went to find help. 

“M’...M’ here, Dutch.” Arthur’s voice sent a wave of relief through Dutch, rendering him breathless and exhausted. “R-ready when you are.” 

It wasn’t the best plan Dutch had come up with. He was balancing on the blind belief that he would be strong enough to lift Arthur by himself, even with his own injury, and dropping the rope would only make the situation worse. Possibly beyond repair. 

But as he lowered the rope into the hole and felt Arthur grasp it, not as strong as he would have liked but stronger than he’d dared to hope, Dutch’s doubts were swept away and he nodded to himself. 

“ReadY?” Dutch asked. 

Arthur grunted. “Just get this over with.” 

Dutch took a breath, steadied his hands, and pulled. 

Instantly, pain danced across his entire body as the gash in his side was pulled, but he stubbornly clenched his jaw and focused on keeping Arthur moving. It wasn’t as difficult as a part of him had feared, Arthur feeling a bit more light than he remembered. 

Or maybe it was just his blind dedication, the furious surge of determination that could rewrite reality when it came to saving his family. 

Arthur was over the ledge within moments, his eyes shut and his forehead sheen with sweat. Dutch raced forward and hooked his arms under Arthur’s shoulders, dragging him back and laying him on the grass. 

Arthur’s breathing was too fast, every other ragged breath turning into a barely controlled gasp of pain. His leg was bent at a horrifyingly unnatural angle, and Dutch caught sight of his hands reaching for his bleeding stomach. 

“Don’t touch them,” Dutch said, grabbing Arthur’s wrists and pulling them away from the cuts. They didn’t look good, but they at least appeared to have stopped bleeding. Arthur didn’t seem to be doing any better, his skin a ghostly shade of white. “Think you can get up? I need to get you on the horse.” Arthur winced, like even the idea of moving worsened his pain. 

“Arthur, I can’t carry you,” Dutch pushed, hating himself for it. “I need you to help me here, son. I can’t help you if you don’t help me.” 

Arthur’s weary eyes met his, seeming just able to comprehend anything through the pain. He set his jaw and, to Dutch’s amazement and relief, firmly nodded. He reached out his hands and Dutch clasped them tightly, taking a step back and pulling them both to their feet. 

Arthur gasped as soon as his broken leg was moved, stumbling as his knees threatened to give out. He would have collapsed right into Dutch if he hadn’t caught him, doing his best to block out Arthur’s pained noises as he guided him to The Count. 

Getting Arthur on the horse was even harder. Dutch’s heart ached at the gasp emitted after lifting him onto the saddle.

His legs hung over one side, Dutch refusing to risk moving Arthur’s leg any more than he already had. He wasted no time mounting behind him, terrified that Arthur would simple topple over and crash to the ground. 

Dutch leaned Arthur against his chest as they rode, being able to ensure Arthur was still breathing a small comfort as he grew dangerously quiet. 

“W-we...we’re still family, Dutch,” Arthur said, just as the rooftops of Valentine came into view. “To me...anyway. To me you’re...you’re still family. Even if-even if you don’t--” 

“Arthur, shut  _ up. _ ” He’d wanted Arthur to keep talking, anything to keep him awake, but now it sounded like it was doing more harm than good, just using up the last of his strength over some stupid mindset that Dutch didn’t love him anymore. His voice sounded so painec, either from his injuries or the words Dutch wasn’t sure, but he hated it. He wasn’t going to let it continue. 

“Of course we’re still family, Arthur. We always will be. I don’t know why...I guess things have been tense lately after...after Hosea-” he paused, swallowing. “Sometimes I forget, Arthur. You know me. I get so caught up in my own grief and my own anger I forget I’m not the only one grieving. I forget that you lost him to, that you loved him as much as I did.” 

They rode through Valentine’s entrance, Dutch never slowing until the doctor’s building came into view. 

“But I didn’t leave, Arthur. We’re still family, I promise. And I am so sorry I let you think that way. I won’t lose you too. You understand?” He waited for a response, panic seeping back into his gut when he received none. 

“Arthur?” His heart sank when he saw Arthur’s closed and eyes slack face. The shallow breaths and just visible rise and fall of his shoulders was the only thing keeping Dutch’s dread at bay. He pulled on The Count’s reigns, his horse skidding to a stop outside the doctor’s door. 

He was yelling for help before he was even on the ground, running up the porch to pound on the door before hurrying back to Arthur, hand on his shoulder trying to figure out the best way to get him down. 

Suddenly there were people beside him reaching for Arthur, and Dutch’s hold tightened protectively. 

“Let us help him,” a voice soothed and Dutch, coming to his senses, stepped away, letting the two men carefully lower Arthur off the horse. 

“His leg’s broken,” Dutch said, and one of the men nodded as they led Arthur inside. Dutch was left in the street, alone, the fading panic leaving him worn and empty. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, frozen, unable to move to follow Arthur inside, to think of what to do next, to come up with any sort of plan on what to do next. 

Eventually the door opened, and one of the men stepped back outside. The end of his coat was stained with blood, and Dutch tried very hard not to focus on that.

“Sir, you’re bleeding!” The doctor exclaimed, hurrying down the stairs to arrive at his side. Dutch raised an arm and glanced down at his side, noting that the puddle of red had continued to spread across his shirt. He hardly felt it. 

“My friend--?” 

“Your friend will be fine,” the doctor said, taking Dutch’s arm and leading him forward. “But you need to come inside. Let me take a look at you.” 

“He hit his head,” Dutch said, and he didn’t miss the way the doctor frowned. 

“We’ll do everything we can.” 

It was out of his hands. Dutch had done everything he could. He’d gotten Arthur out of that cellar, gotten him to safety. He could only hope he’d been fast enough. He couldn’t lose Arthur, too. 

The knowledge that he was done, that there was nothing else to do, seemed to rip away all the impossible energy he’d had since waking up, pain shooting through his exhausted, battered body. 

His legs gave out and he fell, the alarmed yells around him muffled and fading fast. His fall was slowed and he was gently guided to the ground, hands on his arms, pressing into his sides. He ignored the voices above him and shut his eyes, letting the haze of darkness finally fall over him. 

 

They’d both been beyond lucky. 

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d considered himself lucky, and was beginning to think maybe the universe had suddenly had a change of heart. 

But then Dutch had walked into his room and had the audacity to look  _ mad  _ at Arthur, like it was somehow  _ his _ fault that he’d passed out after having a goddamn ceiling collapse on him after being nearly tortured to death. 

But Arthur had seen Dutch’s relieved smile, the bandage wrapped around his side, the heavy bags under his eyes, and he’d known it was just Dutch’s messed up way of saying he was happy Arthur was ok. 

Arthur just turned away and grumbled something under his breath about staying away from serial killers, his own way of saying the same. 

Valentine had felt the earthquake as well, so there was no need to explain to the doctors what had happened to his leg. 

And either they were stupidly oblivious, or Dutch had just enough money on him for the doctors to treat the obvious knife wounds without question. 

They left in less than a day after Arthur woke, insisting he’d prefer healing in the comfort of his own tent. It was a bittersweet feeling, knowing that this time, there’d be no Hosea constantly fussing over him. 

Dutch led them both outside, Arthur hobbling pathetically with the stupid cast on his leg, and Dutch insisted the rode on the same horse. 

“Just for today,” Dutch said. “Don’t want you falling on your face. Knowing you, you’ll be out of the cast weeks before you should be.” 

Arthur didn’t argue, doing his best to shut out the throbbing pain in his leg as he managed, miraculously, to mount The Count with only a little help from Dutch. 

“You good?” Dutch asked as they started through the quiet streets of Valentine. 

“Fine.”

“Looks like you owe John one. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t have been there to save your ass.” 

Arthur smiled half-heartedly. “Yeah. Thanks, by the way. For, you know. Getting me out of there. I think I remember telling you to leave.”

Dutch scoffed. “Wasn’t even listening. I knew you weren't thinking. Not that you ever did before you hit your head.” Arthur laughed, and Dutch visibly relaxed. 

Most of the ride was spent in silence, not the tense and uncomfortable silence that Arthur had come to reluctantly expect from his limited time with Dutch, but a comforting quiet that let Arthur finally take time to breathe. 

They were getting close to camp, and Arthur was talking before his mind could even register the words. 

“I miss him too.” 

He watched Dutch stiffen, watched him clench and unclench the reigns in his hands, watched take a breath and bow his head. 

“I know.” 

“I don’t want to lose you too, Dutch.” Arthur had hard what Dutch had said on the ride to Valentine. He’d been too tired to respond, falling away before he could tell Dutch that, yes, he understood. To tell him that family was most important now, the only thing that mattered, and he and Dutch would always be family. 

“You won’t son,” Dutch promised, and Arthur thought that he might already know all the things Arthur wasn’t saying. “We’ll be ok.” 

The camp was quiet when they got back, Arthur and Dutch arriving without a sound. He begrudgingly accepted the unnecessary help dismounting, He limped to his tent by himself, sending only a final, knowing glance back at Dutch. 

And, just like Dutch had promised, Arthur finally got his first real night of sleep in a long while, the nightmares finally set to rest. 

  
  



End file.
